


There will always be a first time

by redmyeyes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Underaged Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Episode: s15e13 Destiny's Child, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Multiverse, Rimming, Season/Series 15, Sibling Incest, Soulmates, Spit As Lube, Top!Sam, also implied switching, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29464224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redmyeyes/pseuds/redmyeyes
Summary: No matter how many universes Chuck creates, no matter how many different versions of themselves there are, Sam and Dean will always find their way to each other. There will always be a first time.
Relationships: AU Dean Winchester/AU Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/OFC (brief), Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 70
Collections: Every Time We Touch: A First-Time Wincest Fest





	There will always be a first time

**Author's Note:**

> This is my ode to fanfic first-times. Because it doesn't matter how many I read, how many different ways Sam and Dean end up together, it always seems _right_ and _destined_ and a hundred percent plausible.
> 
> Most of these are made up (by me), but some are direct references to specific fic. See endnotes for more details. Everything else that seems like a ref is either subconscious or pure coincidence.

* * * * *

The first time it happens, Sam is thirteen. It's not exactly a first time, but more his first inkling awareness of the needle on desire's compass. It's late, middle of the night when Sam's awakened by the door of the motel room slamming open and hushed giggling voices following in its wake. Dad had left that afternoon for a job, not to return for a few days, and Dean had taken the opportunity to take his fake ID to the nearest bar, telling Sam _don't wait up_ with a wink and a smirk on his way out the door.

The girl is whispering loudly, in the way of only the truly drunk, and Dean is trying to hush her in between wet, slurping kisses.

"That your brother over there?" the girl giggles.

"Yeah, don't worry," smack, slurp, "he..." groan, "sleeps like the dead."

Sam is frozen, eyes staring wide at the far wall, his back to the door and the second bed. He tries to keep his breathing even, even though he knows they're far too preoccupied to notice either way.

The lights blaring outside through the cheap motel curtains are casting clear shadows on the wall, so Sam can see distinctly when Dean separates enough from the girl to strip his t-shirt off. The girl hums in appreciation, stroking hands down Dean's chest, before Dean grabs her and flips her back onto the bed. She bounces, giggling, then Dean is on her, predatory like a lion.

For a while there's just a shapeless writhing shadow on the wall and the sound of kissing intermingled with the girl's small gasps and moans, but then Sam can see separation, can see Dean's shadow making its way down the girl's body, opening her blouse, lingering over her chest, then moving lower…

It's not that Sam isn't aware of these things, in theory. He grew up with Dean, after all, couldn't avoid absorbing at least a little porn, although usually he'd either left the room in a huff or buried himself in headphones and a book, too embarrassed to actually watch when Dean had put it on. And, in any case, there's a big difference between the cool distance of a tiny motel TV and the live, breathing, writhing, groaning flesh not three feet away from him.

Dean's head is between the girl's legs now, and she's not even _trying_ to keep quiet, panting and whimpers and moans of "fuck yes", and Sam is _so hard_ , wondering what it would be like to have a mouth on him. To have _that_ mouth on him.

And then Dean is raising himself up on his knees, body tall and elongated in shadow, and there's the loud sound of a zipper, a shimmy of hips as Dean pushes his jeans down, and Sam can see… fuck, he can _see_. Dean's dick, jutting out hard and angled from his body, and there's the telltale sound of a condom wrapper opening and then Dean's fisting himself, rolling the condom on. And Sam can't touch himself, knows if he does, he'll explode the second his hand makes contact, so just lays there shivering with coiled tension.

And Dean is rolling down into her, all sinuous liquid movement as he presses inside, and Sam can tell the exact moment it happens from the girl's gasp and satisfied moan, and Sam wants… he doesn't even know what, just that he _wants_ , hugging himself to try and keep still, panting open-mouthed shallow quiet breaths, afraid of even breathing too much, too deeply.

"Fuck yeah, Sam," Dean groans out, and the sound is a live wire running straight through Sam, lighting up every hidden piece of him, and he shoves a fist in his mouth and bites down hard, trying to silence his startled gasps.

"Sa _mantha_ ," the girl corrects breathlessly, but the damage is done and Sam can't unhear it.

There's just panting now; rhythmic, broken-off moans escalating in volume and pitch from the girl, sound of wet, smacking flesh, and Sam is straining for any sound from Dean, can't take the tension anymore and finally palms himself through his shorts, and when Dean groans out a guttural, broken, "fu-uuck," Sam explodes, biting hard on his fist to keep the sound in.

Sam lays there spent and shuddering, unaware of everything except the shockwaves still coursing through him, and he has just enough conscious thought left to ardently hope that he won't have to wake to find the girl still there in the morning.

As he drifts off to sleep, it doesn't even occur to him to wonder why he'd been imagining himself in the girl's place, and not in Dean's.

**

The first time it happens, a month before he's due to leave for Stanford, Sam's giddy with a mixture of booze and adrenaline, flying high on Dean's pride at watching Sam hustle an entire table of card sharks, and when he wakes up in the middle of the night tangled around Dean in their shared bed, he rolls with it, pressing into Dean's cheeks through their thin sleepwear. And Dean _lets_ him, tensing at first, then relaxing back into his body.

Sam is young enough to label his regard for Dean's hotness as "aesthetic appreciation", young enough to call what they're doing in the middle of the night "just helping each other relax", but old enough to know he's not quite being honest with himself.

**

The first time it happens, they've only been on the road together a few months. Sam's gotten the feeling that Dean, with all his careful glancing touches to the back of his neck, his arm slung across the back of the seat as he drives, is acclimating Sam to something, gentling him like a dog.

This thing building between them is heavy in the air; they don't talk about it, Sam won't even let himself _think_ about it, but when Dean ups the ante in the middle of a poker game by tossing a condom in the pot, Sam wordlessly counters with a bottle of lube.

**

The first time it happens, Dean tells him with quiet, pleading desperation, “If we do this, there’s no going back.”

**

The first time it happens, there's a girl shared between them, just to make the denial more palatable. It doesn't take long before the girls are first ignored and then avoided altogether. Dean's on a death clock, and Sam could care less about morals and normalcy when his entire world's about to end. He fucks Dean with all the desperate fury of a man with nothing left, as if he could tether Dean to this world with just the force of his own body, and Dean… just lets him. Just _takes_ it. And holds Sammy afterwards, his hand stroking through hair, as Sam sobs bitter tears into his shoulder.

**

The first time it happens is a Tuesday. The 106th Tuesday in a row, to be precise.

**

The first time it happens, Sam blames it entirely on the fanfic.

**

The first time it happens, their names are Smith and Wesson.

**

The first time it happens, people think their names are Jared and Jensen.

**

The first time it happens, Dean is tentative and gentle, touching Sam as if he's made of ash, will crumble and blow away into nothing if he's not careful.

**

The first time it happens, Dean is angry and raw, shoving Sam face-first against the wall and biting hard into his shoulder as he slams inside in desperation.

**

The first time it happens is not something Sam likes to remember, since it wasn't really _him_ , just some soulless _thing_ that had taken over his body.

**

The first time it happens, Sam is covered in glitter and fairy dust, and he takes no small amount of devious pleasure in catching glimpses of glitter embedded in Dean's skin for _weeks_ afterwards. That shit does _not_ come out.

**

The first time it happens, Sam's been out of the life for over a year, shoving down deep his denial of Dean's death for over a year, playing pretend at having a normal life. Barely clinging to life at all, if he's being honest, which he definitely is not. And when Dean finally returns, unexpected and unasked-for, denial rears its head again in the form of anger and mistrust and jealousy at being so easily replaced – Dean has a _partner_ now, perfect hunting partner who will never let Dean down, never muck up the works with feelings that have been repressed for years, for a lifetime – and Sam can deny and rage and pretend to be different from what he is until he just _can't_ anymore. Until he finally breaks and admits to himself, finally, _finally_ , that there is no home for him but Dean.

**

The first time it happens, they're safe. Safe for the first time in years, maybe ever, together. They've had their own individual bubbles of safety for too-brief moments, but here in the bunker, locked underground, with its solid walls and warding, Sam can feel tension seeping from him that he hadn't even known he was carrying.

Safety and the darkness and the silence are triggering memories he'd rather not look at, nightmares long kept at bay resurfacing now that there's the space for them to do so.

In the deafening silence of the bunker, he can't sleep, so he slips into Dean's bed instead, needing the steadying sound of Dean's breathing. And in the utter pitch-black darkness of that room, untainted by bleeding neon red motel lights, they're safe enough to confess their nightmares to each other, safe enough to confess desires previously held in check by one world-ending crisis after another.

Safe enough…

**

The first time it happens, they're riding high from their victory in the epic battle for Moondor. They've sequestered themselves in a copse of trees far enough away from the rest of the action to be safe from people randomly stumbling on them, Sam thinks, but close enough that they can still hear jovial crowd noise in the near distance. They leave on the tunics and the chainmail, and when they emerge from the trees, their facepaint beyond repair and mostly migrated to other parts of their bodies, Sam thinks to himself, for the first time in… ever, _this was a damn good day._

**

The first time it happens, Dean is dressed as a cowboy. Not as a kink, completely unironically, although it _absolutely_ becomes a kink after that.

**

The first time it happens, it's lightning in a bottle.

**

The first time it happens, it's an awkward, fumbled, drunken mess. But they get better with practice.

**

The first time it happens, it's after Sam's had to endure weeks of lurid, suggestive taunting from the demon tied up and wearing Dean's face. The demon had wheedled and weaseled, offering up his blood, his body, offering every sick, secret fantasy that Sam has ever had about his brother, in exchange for letting him go, letting him escape the torture of being human again. And, in the back of his mind, Sam knows the demon knows to offer these things because _Dean_ knows.

Sam can't let himself think about it. But when the injections of sanctified human blood finally bring his brother back to him, the offers are still there, writ large and naked in Dean's eyes.

**

The first time it happens, they can blame it on the cursed object in the bunker. It's infected Sam with some kind of juiced-up sex pollen, giving him a hard on and an insatiable driving _need_ that will not go away, and it would've been irresponsible of Dean to leave him like that, right? Would've been irresponsible of them _both_. He could have _died_.

The second time, though… the second time, they have no excuse.

**

The first time it happens, Sam's convinced it's a magic spell gone wrong. Because what else could it be? His magic's been seeping out of him for weeks now, unconsciously blanketing itself around Dean, tuning itself into Dean's every need – conjuring coffees, soothing sore muscles, making him dry and warm and safe and comfortable – and Sam has held himself back for _years_ , but clearly his unconscious desires have now overpowered his mental blocks, _clearly_ something has gone wrong, because Dean's now leaning over the war room map table and _kissing_ him, lips hard and vodka-flavored.

Turns out it has nothing to do with magic. Turns out, Dean is simply in love with him. For years, he says. For decades, Sam hears.

And Sam ignores the puns, Dean's quick quips about how he was charmed, spellbound, enchanted, because the truth of it is, whatever magic he supposedly cast absolutely works both ways.

**

The first time it happens, it's not even _them_ , just two pampered prettyboys wearing their faces. Sam would very much like to be dismissive of their carefully coiffed hair, their designer clothes, their manicured, uncalloused hands; he'd like to pretend there's nothing real about them and their sheltered easy lives – just a plastic copy of a copy.

Except… the way they look at each other, entire novels' worth of conversation shared between them silently, an entire lifetime's worth of shared history that Sam and Dean, for all their identical genetics, will never be privy to… the way they look at each other, clearly they can read each other as well as he and Dean can, and there's something to be said for that. There's something _real_ in that.

And when the other Dean calls the other him "Samuel", with that smirk on his lips and open fondness in his eyes, Sam speculates that maybe there's even more there than he thought.

And when Dean suggests the others go to Brazil "for the babes", and they share a long unreadable look between them and then look back at him and Dean with something Sam can only call pity, Sam wonders what the hell he's missing.

And when Sam passes by Samuel's room in the middle of the night, on the way back to his own, and hears the muffled but unmistakable sounds of pleasure through the door, Sam's questions are irretrievably answered, and he's shot through with a sudden sense of loss and misplaced envy.

**

The first time it happens…

**

The first time…

**

_… first…_

**

…

**

The first time it happens, it's a vision sent by God. Or rather, by Chuck, asshole that he is. For weeks now, Sam's been jerked out of sleep every single night, panting hard and clammy with cold sweat, inundated with too-real, too-vivid visions of him and Dean murdering each other six ways to Sunday. He's been forced to relive every agonizing near-miss, every time they made the wrong choice… every time they didn't choose each other over everything.

He knows without them having to talk about it that Dean is sharing the same nightmares, can tell by the anguished glances Dean throws him when he thinks Sam's not looking – his face naked with guilt and apology for actions he'd only taken in dreams.

And then the visions change.

Instead of death, what he sees is… he sees…

Sam sees himself at thirteen, at eighteen, at twenty-two, at every age until _now_ – sees every first kiss, every moment of desperate longing, every blissful satisfaction, every stunned realization of _right_ and _Dean_ and _home_ and _finally_ – _feels_ every single moment.

Sam sees himself and Dean a thousand different ways, in a thousand different scenarios, scenarios not just seen but _experienced,_ and now he's waking up every night overheated and desperately hard, like he hasn't been since he was a teenager.

He's mostly been able to tamp down the feelings during the day, ignore them in favor of business to do, things to take care of, world to save and yada yada yada, but at night, they're ever-present and just _there_ , right at the forefront of his mind.

He wakes one night hard and sweating for the nth time in a row – there were _tentacles_ in this one, and Sam really doesn't know what to make of _that_ – and he tosses and turns for a while before surrendering to the fact that he's way too restless to fall back asleep. Jerking off only makes it worse, which Sam has learned from hard-won experience – jerking off makes the visions solidify and creep into daylight hours no matter how much he wills them down – so finally Sam flicks on the bedside lamp, heaves himself out of bed in frustration, slings a towel around his waist, and stumbles out of his room in search of a cold shower.

He runs into Dean in the hallway.

"Sammy, hey," Dean says, his eyes wide. "I was just…" he swallows hard, eyes skittering over Sam's bare chest. "Sandwich," he manages, pointing to the kitchen. Then, "Shower?" pointing at Sam.

Sam looks pointedly down at his naked, towel-enclosed body and just raises his eyebrows at Dean.

"Right, yeah, just gonna… right." Dean stutters out, edging past Sam to the kitchen.

"Dean, wait," Sam says, grabbing Dean's wrist.

Dean glances down at his captured wrist, then flicks his eyes back up to Sam's, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

"I… " Sam starts, but his mind is blank. He only knows he didn't want Dean to leave. "I dunno what I was gonna say," he laughs. His eyes are locked on Dean's, and he tightens his grip on his wrist. He can feel something manic bubbling up through him.

"Look, Sam," Dean tries, "just because they… I mean, we know it's all… manipulation. It's fucking _Chuck_ , he's _playing_ with us, man."

Sam's shaking his head before Dean even finishes. "It's not Chuck, I don't think this is his… I mean, he wants us to _kill_ each other, not… and anyway, that doesn't explain the other 'us'… the ones from the rift? That you sent off to Brazil?"

Dean's eyes go even wider. "They weren't…"

"They were," Sam nods. "Heard them. Sounded like they were enjoying themselves."

"Jesus," Dean exhales, his voice thick.

Sam's rubbing circles on the tender skin on the inside of Dean's wrist with the pad of his thumb, and his gaze travels down to watch the unconscious movement, fixated.

"Sammy… " Dean pleads, trying to pull his arm back. He only succeeds in pulling Sam a step closer.

Sam chews on his lower lip, his mind blank, his eyes still locked on Dean's wrist, his thumb, rubbing.

"Sam," Dean tries again, and this time Sam looks up to meet his eyes. Dean's pupils are blown wide and his voice is low and guttural when he speaks again. "You've gotta… if you want… you gotta _say_."

"Want," Sam says, voice rough.

"Yeah," Dean rasps out in acknowledgement, licking his lips.

Sam leans in, silent question in his eyes, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of Dean's head. He holds himself there for an endless moment, but the only answer he sees in Dean's eyes is _yes_ , and then Dean is pressing up into him, lips soft and insistent.

Sam's lips part instinctively, tongue darting out, tentative at first, but the feeling of Dean's tongue on his is like a jolt of lightning through his veins, shattering something open inside him, and he's backing Dean into the wall without thought, dropping Dean's wrist in favor of getting a hand on his hip through the soft cotton flannel of his pajama pants. And Dean's sliding his hand up his back, raking a hand through his hair and gripping the strands tight, angling their heads to swirl his tongue deeper into Sam.

It's wet and hot, heady, delicious slide and tangle of tongues, and it's the promise of every vision fulfilled, because it's also _right_ and _Dean_ and _home_ and _finally_ , and Sam doesn't know _why_ they haven't… why this has taken _so_ …

"Sammy…" Dean groans out brokenly, "… the fuck did we wait so long for?"

"Technically," Sam pants, mouthing along Dean's jaw to his throat, "we didn't wait." He licks a long line up the tight cord of Dean's neck, nuzzling under his jaw and biting experimentally. "I mean… the multi-universe theory is… basically proven now," he continues between bites and sucks, making his way slowly down Dean's throat to his collarbone, "... and Chuck… doesn't know what the fuck he's doing… what he's _done_ … completely out of his control… and… every single time we made a choice… thousands and thousands of times… _millions_ … " Sam's made his way back up now, nibbling and suckling the lobe of Dean's ear, his breathing heavy. "Every single choice… a new universe was created… and they… _we_ … found our way to each other."

He stills then, letting his head drop to the crook of Dean's neck. "If I hadn't… if I didn't grab your wrist… this would be some other us right now." He lifts his head to meet Dean's eyes, feeling suddenly hollow and lost at the possibility, at the sense of _almost_ , what could have been…

Dean meets his gaze steadily, despite the rabbiting of his heart under Sam's hand. "If you're coherent enough to give a lecture on multi-dimensional physics, clearly we're doing something wrong," he says simply, sliding his hands down Sam's back, and Sam can hear the unspoken message underneath: _Don't think about that. We're here_ now.

Dean's hands slide down his back to edge into his towel, and Sam's immediately reminded of his state of undress. He groans out a sound of appreciation, or maybe acquiescence, and then he's pulling Dean back into his room.

Dean strips off his t-shirt without a word, and then pulls Sam's head down to his, meeting him open-mouthed with a clash of teeth and tongues, and the pace quickly escalates to a fever pitch.

Sam slides his hands up Dean's sides and over his shoulders, around his back, needing to get his hands on every inch of newly exposed flesh. Dean is a live wire underneath his hands – tight, lean muscle roiling and rippling under smooth skin, their bare chests sliding together slick with sweat – and Sam wants to get his mouth on every inch, to bite and suckle and learn the taste of Dean's skin, but can't break away from his mouth – _Dean's_ mouth, and fuck, he should've known Dean was a good kisser, been witness to his hookups countless times, but Christ, there's clearly a difference between the hypothetical and, and the… the _experiential_ , because fuck if Sam's not losing brain power quickly at the feel of Dean's plush lips suckling his tongue, his teeth nipping with just the right amount of pressure, the wicked little thing he's doing with his tongue…

Dean tugs on Sam's towel and throws it aside, his hands roving lower and digging into the flesh of his ass, grinding their cocks together through the thin cotton of his pants, and it's not enough, not nearly close enough.

Sam thumbs under the edge of Dean's waistband, and then he's shoving his pants down, satisfied to note that he's bare underneath. The head of Dean's cock gets stuck on the elastic for a second before it bounces free, and Dean hisses out a curse. The movement is enough to break their mouths apart, and Sam looks down, mesmerized, fisting both their cocks together in his large hand and giving a few experimental strokes.

"Nnngh, fuuck," he groans out, electricity shooting all through him at the feel of his brother's hard cock on his, so fucking hot, pure velvet-encased heat. They're both breathing hard, foreheads tipped together and staring down, watching Sam's hand as it moves without his conscious input. Sam swipes a thumb through the pre-come beading on both their dicks, and it eeks out a startled groan and hip-stutter from Dean, and the sound is so intoxicating that Sam does it again without thought, swirling the smooth viscous fluid around both their heads.

Dean's hands clench hard on Sam's ass, trying to grind them closer together. And it's still not enough, friction too light, Sam can't get a good enough grip around their combined girths, and he staggers forward a step, slamming Dean into the back of the door and grinding his hips hard into Dean's.

Dean's head falls back against the door with a moan, and Sam dives forward to lick up the long line of his exposed throat, biting hard on tender flesh and laving away the sting with his tongue.

Want and heat are pooling low in his belly, coiling tight and spiraling out all through him until he's strumming like an over-tightened guitar string, and he could easily come right here, rutting naked against his brother…

With a monumental amount of effort, he pushes himself off Dean and staggers back a step or two, allowing his eyes to rove over miles of exposed flesh. And it's not like he and Dean haven't seen each other naked before, but never like this: Dean leaning languid against the door, boneless and wanton, panting hard, his eyes heavy-lidded. Sam's gaze travels down the plane of his brother's body in the low light, taking in pale, smooth skin marred with scars – Sam could name the cause of every single one, and has a sudden impulse to kiss and lick them all away – skin stretched tight over lean muscle, sculpted pecs, defined abs, the deep V of his hips pointing to his reddened jutting cock, and Sam knew his brother was a beautiful, beautiful man, but _fuck_. It never truly entered his consciousness like this before. His gaze travels back up, to Dean's now marked-up throat, his kiss-swollen lips, his eyes, which are now calm and staring at Sam appraisingly.

 _Dean's_ eyes, and he's seen that look of calm, assured competence in them a million times before on a hunt, and for an instant, ice-cold sobriety is flooding Sam's veins, because this is his _brother_ and what the fuck does he think he's doing?

"Jesus," he says, exhaling hard. "Are we… we're really doing this."

"Don't believe in halfway measures, Sammy. Either we're doing it or we're not." The statement's flatly delivered, but there's something in Dean's eyes that Sam can't read… something that's not quite pleading, but… maybe closer to… hope?

Dean's gaze is still assessing, seemingly weighing something, but after a long moment, he simply pushes himself off the door and walks over to the bed, trailing his fingertips lightly over Sam's chest as he passes.

Sam watches as Dean stretches out on his back, lacing his hands behind his head, and bringing one knee up and letting it fall open in invitation. _Eloquent_ , Sam thinks, and then he's diving straight in, licking up the long line of Dean's cock and fisting the base before suckling the head, circling his tongue around soft and wet and tonguing the slit with a firm point.

"Fuck, Sammy, so fucking hot," Dean growls out breathlessly, and the sound is a straight shot to his dick, and he moans around Dean's cock in response.

When Sam looks up, Dean's managed to shove two pillows behind his head for leverage, so he can see… he wants to _see_ what Sam's doing, and that thought is so hot it's enough to still Sam momentarily, makes him want to slow down, make it a bit of a show. He licks up the length of him again, his eyes on Dean's, and Dean shoves one hand into Sam's hair, pushing it back from his face.

"Fuck yeah, take it all… Christ, your _mouth_. Fucking _made_ for sucking cock."

Sam moans, taking him down one slow inch at a time until the head of Dean's cock hits the back of his throat, and his eyes flutter closed at the sensation. And then he's bobbing his head enthusiastically, keeping his lips a tight wet suction, his tongue drawing mindless intricate patterns underneath. He skims a hand up Dean's body, pausing to tweak a nipple, and then shoves two fingers in Dean's mouth.

Dean groans in appreciation, suckling his fingers just as enthusiastically as Sam's sucking his cock, getting them nice and wet. Sam pulls his fingers back with a wet pop as they slide from Dean's mouth, and then before Dean has time to register what's happening, Sam presses a finger to his rim, circling it briefly before pressing inside.

That earns him a choked-off groan from Dean, and Sam slows down on his cock, just suckling the head as he gives Dean time to adjust, pumping in and out slowly with one finger. He pulls back to look at Dean. Dean's eyes are closed, and he's got his lower lip between his teeth, but he looks alright otherwise.

"Have you ever?" Sam asks, lips against the length of him, crooking his finger inside, and Dean jolts and bites back a moan as Sam's finger finds that sensitive spot.

"No." Dean says shortly, somehow managing to sound both offended and sanguine at the same time. "Wait, have you?"

"No," Sam starts, then reconsiders, mouthing the words into Dean's skin in between the tasting of him. "I mean, yeah, a few times in college, but never… I mean… I've only ever been on… this end." He brushes over that spot again, earning him another wordless, breathy sound of approval. "Next time?"

"Fucking count on it," Dean grins, and something loosens in Sam at the thought that there will _be_ a next time. That somehow, despite how beyond fucked up this all is, they will find a way to make it normal.

He pushes another finger inside, and Dean tightens around him before relaxing into it. Sam continues pumping slowly, bending lower to tongue around the rim, pushing more saliva inside around his fingers. He hits that spot with every drag in and out, twisting his hand and scissoring him open, and Dean is growling out low impatient noises above him.

"Don't want slow, Sammy, c'mon. Too much time to make up for. And–" he starts when Sam opens his mouth, "if you start lecturing me about how time is a flat circle, I swear I will leave you here."

Sam chuckles low in his throat and swipes the head of Dean's cock with the flat of his tongue, swallowing down the resultant pulse of pre-come. "I call bullshit," he grins darkly. "Anyway, was just about to agree with you. So fucking hard. Can't wait any longer."

He pushes Dean's knees up and wide and rocks him back until his ass is angled the way he wants it. "Stay," he says, patting Dean's knee.

Dean arches a brow at that, but holds himself there like Sam wants, stomach muscles clenching with the effort. Sam spits into his hand and fists himself. Not ideal, as lube goes, but it'll have to do. He lines himself up, nudging Dean's tight hole with the fat head of his cock. _This is gonna hurt_ , he wants to say, but Dean's not an idiot, and no stranger to pain in any case.

"Fu-uuck, Dean," he groans brokenly as he presses inside. Dean is so hot, so fucking tight around the head of his cock, and it's all he can do not to slam straight in. He grabs Dean's hips and leans forward, letting his weight push him deeper, inch by agonizing inch, shuddering hard with the effort it's taking to go so slowly.

Halfway in, he pauses. Dean's panting hard, his eyes clenched in pain, but opens his eyes and growls out a sound of disapproval at the interruption.

"Not gonna break, Sammy, c'mon. You wanna fuck me, then _fuck me_."

Sam slams in to the hilt, moaning out a garbled string of curses. Just rocks there for a second, needing to get his bearings. So fucking tight, velvet heat clenching around him like a fist, and it's too much, too intense, he could come right here, he's so close, so fucking close…

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean breathes tightly, pulling Sam's head down, and then they're kissing, wet, open-mouthed, sloppy tangle of tongues. Sam pulls back a fraction and rocks forward experimentally and they moan into each other's mouths at the drag and burn of friction. He pulls back an inch and slams home, and it's…

"Dean, fuck, so fucking… god…."

And then Sam's fucking Dean in earnest, one hand digging into his hip, one hand clambering around his back to his shoulder for leverage as he slams harder and harder inside. His mouth latches on Dean's throat, his collarbone, his shoulder, whatever skin he can reach, and Dean's hands are clawing his back, his legs wrapped around his waist, and he's rocking hard back into Sam with every thrust, moaning incoherently, and Sam wants to stay here on this cusp forever but everything's spiraling tight and hot and white with pleasure, and at the last moment he remembers Dean's cock and he scrambles to get a hand on him, jerking him roughly, and Dean seizes up right away, arching up off the bed, spilling hot and wet over his hand and spasming so tight around him that Sam whites out, slamming home as deep as he can, biting hard on Dean's shoulder as he comes.

Some endless amount of time later, he comes to, shuddering hard, rocking himself through the aftershocks. He lets go of Dean's shoulder, laving away the bite marks with his tongue in apology, then moves to Dean's mouth, kissing him slow and languid. Dean makes a satisfied hum deep in his throat, and Sam pulls back. Dean looks sated and satisfied, utterly fucked out. He looks delicious, and Sam can't help leaning back in again, nipping at his bottom lip and licking in slow.

When he pulls back again, Dean's got a fond smirk on his lips.

"Sammy, gonna give me a heart attack if we go for round two right now. Chill, boy. We got time." He presses a kiss to Sam's forehead, stroking his hair back.

Sam pulls out of Dean slowly, then lets himself collapse boneless to the side, trapping Dean underneath him with one leg flung over his hips and an arm across his chest. "Weren't you just complaining about how we had too much time to make up for a second ago?" He murmurs fondly, pressing a kiss to Dean's temple. "Could give you that lecture on time being a flat circle now if you want… "

Dean swats his arm. "Christ, what am I letting myself in for?" he moans with a heavily exaggerated sigh.

"Don't even front, you know you love it," Sam snorts, nuzzling closer.

Dean hums, stroking Sam's arm on his chest. When he speaks again, it's quiet, almost tentative. "Sammy… that was… we're good, right?"

Sam just rolls his eyes in exasperation. As if, after everything they've been through, they could be anything else _but_ good. But just says, " _Yes_ , Dean," stressing hard the silent _don't be an idiot_.

Dean huffs out a laugh. Message received then. "Hey, you think we'll keep dreaming about them? Us?"

Sam shrugs. "If we do, I'm guessing you'll save me from having to go off in search of cold showers ever again."

Dean makes a low rumbled sound of pleasure. "Fucking count on it."

**Author's Note:**

> Fics referenced, in chronological order:
> 
>   * [The Wheel of Fortune](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603437) by Zara_Zee
>   * [Strong Black Vine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4413944) by shaenie 
>   * [Not With a Leap, but a Series of Staggers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/367028) by nyxocity
>   * [Like Staring Into the Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/367041) by nyxocity
>   * [Stranger Than Fiction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/379457) by nyxocity
>   * [A Beacon Burning Endlessly Bright](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2757152) by AxeMeAboutAxinomancy
>   * [Blood And Bone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11503440) by AxeMeAboutAxinomancy
>   * [Contagious](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4952032) by themegalosaurus
>   * [Any Witch Way](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28445679) by merle_p
>   * [Light Through the Edge of a Mirror](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27776158) by nyxocity
> 

> 
> Everyone should absolutely go check out the [First-Time Wincest Fest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/First_Time_Wincest_Fest) collection, which had the amazing, brilliant idea of trying to turn every single episode into a first time. <3


End file.
